Sting Like a Bee

We have these really aggressive carpenter bees that tend to hang around the back steps like they own that piece of the 'hood. They're pretty cocky, and have been known to bounce off my son's head while he runs screaming into the house, ditching his backpack and whatever else he is carrying into the yard. I've tried to cajole the boy, saying that they won't sting him. But he'll have none of these half-truths. He practically begs me to walk in front of him to protect him on his journey from the car to the porch.

"Aaaaah!" His scream is like a pre-teen girl's. "Moooom, come help!"

Of course, the sounds coming from him are terrifying...and they have the gut-twisting pitch of a baby that's been dropped or pinched its finger in the door (or pinched its chin in a zipper; all of which have happened to my own children many times).

"Lucian, relax. They're not going to sting you. I sit out here all the time and they have never once come near me." Another half-truth. The little buzzy bastards get pretty darn close to scope me out. I just blow smoke at them.

"That's because they're afraid of you," he says, matter-of-factly. "You're meaner than they are."

I laughed at the off-color compliment. It is an honor that my son, who is a man in the making, thinks I'm tougher than a swarm of bees. His sister shares his sentiments, I think. She's had a cold of late and when I told her I thought it was allergies because I've had the same headache for nearly 5 days, her jaw dropped.

"How do you do it? You don't even act like you have a headache. Nobody would know that you have a headache right now."

What a badass, right? Me with my bee repelling force-field and my stoicism in the face of a chronic migraine...I wish. It's hard to explain to them, that for all of my physical rigidity in the face of their worst fears, I'm a total wimp. And I blame them, completely, for my wimpness. They are the source of it, just as they are the source of my Herculean strength.

My friend B (ironic I know, but I'm now talking about a real person, not an insect) has two teenage sons. Growing up, she was a mild girl, really quiet and well-behaved. Even as an adult, she's calm, hilariously funny, likes girly things and exotic food. But do not cross her when it comes to her boys. Suddenly, B will sting. Hard.

"I never really stood up for myself, didn't want to ruffle any feathers," she said, sipping coffee and being careful not to drip any on her vintage, lacy blouse. "But man, after I had kids...having kids will make a fighter out of any mother."

Then I must be a fucking gladiator. I see myself, from the inside, as a bare-chested, lean-hipped warrior, painted for battle--because battle can come at any time. When I hear Johnny Cash sing "Ain't No Grave," I hear my anthem when my children need me. No matter the situation, I am there, dirty, armed, and baring teeth.

On the outside, I am wearing a white linen dress, nautical sandals, and pink bobble earrings. Gotta take the enemy by surprise.

If the kids knew this, they'd be scared, I think. But if they knew, even for a second, how much power their existence has over mine...that would produce the greater fear. We've often had "what would you do if..." chats in the car, usually on the way to school. It makes them a little prickly in their seats.

"Mom, what would you do if the only way to keep us alive was to cut off your own arm?" My son is usually the purveyor of these cataclysmic scenarios. He's in third grade, and going through a heavy 'end of the world' phase.

"Then I'd cut off both my arms. And my legs, just to be on the safe side."

Anna's jaw drops. "That's awful. Lucian, stop asking Mom such awful questions."

"Would you die?"

"Lucian!"

"No, no, it's OK, Anna. Yes, I'd die. But I'd die knowing that you'd be safe. Otherwise, I'd die of a broken heart if anything happened to you."

He is still mulling over the whole death by broken heart thing. But then again, he's never had children. He doesn't remember the day, when he was just two years old, that he went missing in a crowd of thousands at a harvest festival. He doesn't remember that I scooped up his nearly six-year-old sister like she was a tiny bird, and pushed my way frantically through a sea of people, screaming his name, not recognizing the sound of my own voice. It was a desperate sound, a howl. He doesn't remember the look on my face when I saw him walking to me from the Lost and Found table. Or when I nearly passed out with relief and kneeled on the ground and held his sweaty little body so tight that his hat flew off and he lost a shoe. I sobbed relentlessly.

"It's OK, you gotta calm down. He's here." A friend, and non-parent said. "Everybody's looking at us."

Indeed a small, confused crowd had gathered. But the mothers knew. They knew exactly what happened when I dropped to wrap my son in my iron grip. And they were crying, too. Relieved that the fortress would not fall, at least, not that day.

Tell Her About It...

I was listening to Billy Joel the other day while baking yet another dozen blueberry muffins. (I've got a lot of cooking projects going on most days, not wanting anything to go to waste.) The music got me to wondering what every happened to Billy Joel and his bombshell wife, the fabulous -- though too teary-eyed -- Christie Brinkley. What ever happened to them? The rest of us little people thought that the Jersey boy had it made in the Antiguan shade when he married the beautiful blonde. It was as if one of his songs had come to life; Uptown Girl meets a boy from the wrong side of the Hicksville tracks, gets married, rides off into the Hudson sunset while synthesizers and rock drums beat in the urban distance.

Nothing is ever that good, it seems. Rumors flew, did Joel cheat? What a fool? C'mon every man in America would've given his left (or right) nut to be with the Sports Illustrated demi-goddess. My brother was madly in love with her. It was the 80s and Christie was the prize. Now I know what happened to some of the Cover Girl ads that were ripped out of my mom's Vogue magazines.

I guess fairytales don't last forever, not even if you have great musical talent and perfect make-up. Fairytales take a lot of maintenance. Like we're talking Brazilian waxing-type maintenance. And ironically, the onus isn't always on the "ugly one" to make the relationship work. Perhaps Christie was too cool to the touch. That happens far too often in most pairings. One is too cold, and one is too hot. The chi is all messed up and the yang murders the ying.

I am supremely guilty of being frosty, as it has been pointed out again and again. It does not occur to me to dole out grand embraces and to steal kisses when no one is looking. I don't gush, I don't bat my eyelashes, I don't initiate much hand holding. It's not a punishment (I'm much more creative than that). I just don't think about doing these things. Maybe it's because I've been on my own for so long, even when I wasn't technically "alone" that that stuff just, somewhere deep in my cavernous mind, well, isn't important. It's the rosettes on the icing on the cake. Totally superflous, and silly, like potted daisies and doilies on the coffee table.

Well, maybe not that bad. And besides, I'm learning pretty quickly that people cherish their daisies...especially in the winter as a centerpiece to a dull table. And that doilies remind us of our grandmothers who hand crocheted each one for an Easter brunch with the family. It isn't enough to just be comfortable in the fact that we love and are loved. It isn't enough to make popcorn and plop down next to my lover thinking that my nearness and the popcorn are enough. Or that vacuuming the entire house is clearly my way of saying, "I love you." 'Cause let's be honest, it's not. It's my way of saying, "Jeezus f**** Chr****!! This place is a catastrophe." Really no thoughts of love there.

Even the Dalai Lama, the most spiritual, seemingly grounded man in our modern world, knows that affection is a roaring fire when compared to the tiny candle flame glow of most other human conditions and concoctions.

"We can live without religion and meditation, but we cannot survive without human affection."

I was told that you need 12 hugs a day to sustain a happy life, ward of depression, maybe even combat cancer. It didn't seem like that much until I counted how many of those hugs I give and how many I receive. Apparently, in the deep subconscious of my dark mind, 12 is a frivolous "too many." But would it be too many if you actually knew how many hugs you would have given and gotten by the end of your life? What if you're only 36 hugs away from no more hugs? Same goes for kisses, reassuring pats on the back, handshakes, and yes, of course, sexual encounters.

It's a horrible thought. But, maybe inspiring for this frosty wordsmith. Just this morning, my boyfriend called me saying he had been in a minor accident. No injuries, no seriousness -- but it struck me about a half hour later. "I didn't kiss him before he went to work." In fact, he came to ME before he left and tried to give me a hug. I returned it with a hurried lame-ass squeeze and breezed by him saying something about forgetting to pack lunch money for the kids.

That's not going to be his last memory of me. Or the thing that sends him off to a day of unknowns. It's time to take more care.

Cruel intentions

We all have those standout moments in school, the kind that either make you are break you or put a carcass around your neck and toughen you up. I had so many, from first grade, right on up. Some felt like Olympic gold -- bases loaded, we're up by one, I've thrown two strikes and three balls...bam strike three; on to the tournament. Others felt like tuberculosis. They were those cruel moments where, as a kid, I couldn't breathe because of my lack of ability to handle the meanness of my peers. And they were f***ing mean. None of this anti-bullying campaign when I was growing up. It felt like kill or be killed, even in the cruddy confines of our tiny, run-down elementary school.

First, of course, were the teeth. I've always had big teeth. It's a family trait, supposedly they are charming now. But then, my god, a day didn't go by that somebody, usually the same somebody and his cronies, would make a nasty comment about my teeth. Of course, the first time it happened, I was floored. And hurt, and couldn't come up with a response. I had no idea that others found me ugly. My grandmother seemed to think I was pretty cute, my teachers never said anything about my teeth. It probably didn't help that I was taller than any other human being in class, skinny as a rail, and pretty smart.

By sixth grade, the teeth thing was nothing new. I just let it roll of my back, or worse yet, would say something more cutting. Something like "At least I can fix my teeth. There's no hope for your brain, SPED." Yeah, it was that low. The kid(s) who pricked at my confidence were the very same who were taken out of class for special help with reading and math. An eye for an eye, right? I had my tough skin now. And when the braces finally came off the first week of ninth grade, I thought for sure that I was totally fixed. That the taunting was over. I was golden, right?

Cruel illusions. Really. We had all melded into our unbroken groups by that point. I tried to mingle among the pods of "types." I had my athlete friends (I played three sports for awhile, then finally knocked it down to softball, lifting and a shitload of hiking); my theater friends (Shakespeare productions and a few high school musicals); my work friends who were older and taught me how to make a killer penne, play chess, and love good wine (and roll a joint behind the French cafe I worked at); my family friends. But no matter how many alliances there were, no matter how many bonfires and whiskey flasks surrounded us, there was always, at the most unsuspecting moments, some kind of useless cruelty that went along with the whole culture. Even my close friends, my "peeps", who had all pretty much outgrown me by a foot, called me "Shortround." I just learned to deal with it. It even made me laugh at some point. Sure, sure, Shortround. No problem. I just ploughed ahead, kept up with the grades, and the sports, and the jobs, and prayed that I'd make it out alive. Ugly, it seems, but alive.

Things went well. Sort of. Nobody minded me in college. In fact, it seemed that I drew quite a crowd (of mostly men) in my 20s. I had no idea why, what with the big teeth and all. Even after I had my daughter, there was no sudden drop off in dates and phone calls. On the eve of my wedding, I was teaching high school and the younger (like way younger) brother of a former nasty classmate of mine congratulated me.

"Yeah, I told my brother that you were getting married and he just couldn't believe it," he said, defensive on my behalf. "He couldn't believe that someone would marry YOU. I told him you were an awesome teacher," he blushed. "And really pretty."

"Thanks," I said, the wind knocked right out of my bridezilla sails.

But then I got to thinking. That mean, nasty boy. I remember him. He was a short little troll of misery that walked around berating everyone and everything, but we let him do it. A good student, sure. A star wrestler, yup. But, in the end he was a dick. And all I could think was, well, I'm glad I'm not marrying him.

I wonder if anyone every married that a**hole?

I'm not above it. None of us are. There's still a little bit of that terrified, beat up, awkward kid in me yet. It's a bitter solace I take in seeing some of the people from those days. Some of them are fat. Some of them are alone. Some have kids and jobs, some don't. Some drink, some have criminal records, some finally grew up, some didn't.

We all made it somehow, but just barely. It's an ugly business. The silver lining...success? Good looks? A solid marriage? Kids? I wish I could know for sure.

For the record, on the eve of my 36th birthday, I'm pretty thrilled about my big shiny teeth. The better to smile on my even shinier kids. Who will knock your kids right out of the water with their gorgeous brilliance.

Na, na, na--meanies.

The Problem With Power Booty

First, let me reassure you that I know that there are people all over the world who are starving. And that this may, on first glance, seem like a frivolous commentary on our equally frivolous culture (we can warm our asses on our car seats for godssake), but somewhere in here is a bigger issue. A grander scale that needs investigating. I should preface this by saying I don't have all the answers. If I did, this blog would be history.

The Halftime Show. Yes, I'll start there. I promised my darling, yet brutally over-tired children that they could watch Beyonce perform before they brushed their teeth and hit the sheets. I sat down with them, but not too close because Lucian's breath smelled oddly of hot dogs, although he doesn't even like/eat hot dogs. It's one of those mysteries I have no desire to solve. Anyway, back to halftime. There is the bodacious Beyonce with her long Rapunzel-esque locks, surrounded by leather bedecked dancers and a ring of actual flame (from propane tanks, as Lucian noted). We watched her sing and swing and widen her eyes so big I thought, for a moment, that I was watching some kind of vaudeville throw back and not a decadant American diva. Actually, to be honest, there wasn't much singing. More booty-shaking and hip grinding than anything else. My son left the room, saying the dance was "disgusting" and he didn't want to watch a bunch of women "in bathing suits, doing that weird dance." My more pop-savvy daughter stared on in disbelief.

"I'm really going to have to rethink how I feel about Beyonce," was her hesitant response.

It sounds like a scene from the Flanders' household. You know, the Evangelical neighbors of the debauched Simpsons? But, sadly, we are not the Flanders. And this halftime show was no joke. I am not a conservative woman, not by any stretch of any leotard or bustier. Basically, I follow the French (as in 1920s French, not the current terrifying conservative, racist, anti-immigration French government) line of thinking. Topless beach, no problem. Sex orgies, sure if that's your thing, girl power, black power -- yes, yes, yes -- all cool. But I couldn't shake the feeling, as I was watching all that leather and, well, lace, bopping around, that we (and Beyonce) have hit a strange low in our collective culture. She really didn't sing that much, and the real flames didn't fool me. And the set list, utterly confusing (at least the five minutes she did sing). My daughter and I felt a little glimmer of hope when she started singing "Independent Woman (or is it Women?)." That's a song we got. She sang the refrain, we rocked out for about five seconds, high on the empowerment (The shoes on my feet, I bought 'em, the rock I'm rockin'...yeah, that's right). But not two minutes later, she sings, while bouncing (everything) in a Playboy meets Tron unitard, "If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it..."

But wait a minute...I thought you were independent and you could buy your own ring. No problem, right?

Anna turned to me, her brows knitted together. "I don't get it," she said, and left the room. A little disappointed it seems.

Me neither, babe. I don't get it anymore. Why weren't the Rolling Stones half-naked (blech!) when they performed the halftime? Or at least wearing jock straps or some ridiculous outfit? Because people would've gone ballistic at how weird and disgusting and pandering it was. But yet Madonna sports a friggin' Cuban bathing suit, Beyonce wears lingerie (mind you, this is the same woman who was the epitome of class at the presidential inauguration, the same woman who rocked the national anthem dressed to the nines) and all of us are standing around scratching our heads.

My conclusion, the message is simple: Be what they want you to be when they want you to be it. More bang for the buck.

The problem, we don't know what any of our leaders and role models and celebrities stand for anymore. It's a minute by minute, candle in the wind, fake it 'til you make it (or make money) kinda thing. Very few people seem to start solid and stay solid. I can't imagine not knowing where Nina Simone stood on segregation. Or wondering what George Carlin thought about the human race as a whole. Ha. It all seems so impermanent.

And frankly, unsexy. Yeah, you heard me. I know sexy can sell anything. And there's nothing sexier than Aretha Franklin singing "Ave Maria" in a blood red ball gown, every word weighted and every note beautiful. And let's not forget a few of those words, about the Virgin herself, "Tis thou canst save amid despair."

Thou. Amid despair. No need for fishnets or flamethrowers. Thou. A poverty-stricken, pregnant, unmarried mother. That's as real as it gets. I'm not saying you should go out and start preaching the gospel, but for us, for us women especially, it's essential to make the message clear, strong, and pretty goddamn eternal for all those little eyes that are looking up and wondering when someone else is gonna put a ring on their finger and make them worth something.

The mean mommy

Awhile back, maybe two years ago, Amy Chua published a book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. The main premise of the book was to defend the tough parenting style that many Chinese mothers exact on their children. For instance, any grade lower than an A is unacceptable. Sleepovers and playdates are not an option. Period. Never compliment your child in public. Always take the side of teachers and coaches. You get the point. Of course, her book "sparked controversy" (I hate this media phrase, but it's the only one I could come up with, you know, since I am a journalist), especially here in the States. You can imagine why. Our Western sensibilities and sensitivities couldn't handle the seemingly harsh treatment of the most precious, most innocent of our population: The Children.

Well, I loved the idea. Still love it and I'm sure many of you will groan in horror at my loving it. I think Ms Chua has her sights set on the ever-threatening horizon of adulthood that her children must face, especially in this country. She knows that it is her job to make sure her children not just "get by" but excel in life, in whatever they pursue. I'm all for it. In fact, the older my children get, the stricter I become, to their natural dismay.

"Lucian, you are not leaving this room until every sock and every Lego is put away."
"But I haven't even had breakfast yet! I'm hungry."
"That's good. It'll give you some motivation."
"You're mean."
"I know. But you can have water. I'll give you that."

And just to drive the point home, while he is cleaning his room, pancakes are fluffing out on a skillet in the kitchen, fillng the house with a delicious breakfast aroma.

These same conversations about cleanliness happen with my tween daughter. Usually, they are more heated, until I pull the "food, shelter, drive" card. And just end the conversation with, "Just do what I tell you to do. I'm not doing this for my health, but for your benefit." And right before the door slams, I put my foot in the door jam and say, icily, "Better think about it." Then she quietly shuts her door and commences the relentless clean-up project. That should be in all CAPS: CLEAN-UP PROJECT.

It's exhausting. Truly. And some days, I don't even want to personally uphhold the standards that I have drawn in stone for my kids. And I am nowhere even close to Chinese mother status, but when I look around me...yeah, swimming against the tide.

"Hey, Mom, I got an A- on that geography test!" Anna is all smiles as she puts the test on the fridge. I immediately remove it and comb through the answers to see what she got wrong, then quiz her on the wrong answers.

"Are you going to put it back on the fridge now," she asks, disgusted.
"Of course, it's a good test. Next time, though, honey, you need to pay more attention to what the question says. This could have been an A."

Total dumbfounded silence. And her brother is not safe from this scrutiny either. He is often forced to help me make meals in the kitchen, from scratch, or to rewrite his entire homework sheet because his handwriting is not up to snuff.

"But I got every answer right," he complains. "See? Check plus plus."
"It's good practice," I say, watching him from the doorway, coffee in hand.

I have been scrutinized and criticized for years about this kind of parenting. About how I keep them from social events if there is even the slightest hint of illness, or how I don't allow them to stay up late, not even on the weekends, how I floss and brush my son's teeth still...

Thankfully, I don't care. My eyes are set towards the future in which I will not be able to afford to pay for college for two children, so scholarships are a must. And school comes first, screw your dreams, you're only gonna get there if you have an education, kid. Fact. As for happiness, well, that's up to them. They aren't going to be happy being mediocre and not knowing how to take care of themselves, so...false praise will not a better human make.

So what if you're kid can write an essay, can he write an amazing essay? So what if she does her own laundry, she's supposed to, she's 12! So what if he plays the piano, does he play it well? Does he practice? Better be. Oh fifth place, that's good I guess. If you had started your project earlier you would've won first place.

We're not helping them by patting their backs because they ate their apple at lunch. Or because they are helping with the dishes.

The only thing I will say about holding back on praise, is, in this house, we never hold back on saying, "I love you." Even at the height of frustration at the rules and the strict atmosphere and the high standards, never will I not say to my children 'I love you," before they go to bed and when I drop them off at school or drop them off anywhere. No matter the fight about the saxophone practice, the bad handwriting, the plethora of chores, I will always say it.

"I love you, no matter what."

Will set you free...

Years ago, when I was young lass of 18 (we're talking nearly 20 years back if you must know), I journeyed across the pond to Ireland, making sure, of course, to bring a fair amount of cigarettes because I was told that cigarettes were twice as expensive in Europe, which is true. But, alas, I ran out of my precious addiction feeders less than half-way through the trip. There were lots of opportunities to smoke in Ireland -- sitting on a wet curb waiting for the bus, hustling young men out of their Friday earnings in a billiards game (which would pay for my train fare to Galway), a scorching cup of tea sitting on the steps of a crumbling castle/youth hostel barraged by the frozen sea. Plenty of opportunity, even for this poor American student. What I didn't spend on Guiness and whiskey I spent on cigarettes and coffee. I bought my first 10-pack of Winston-Salems at a bodega right before we boarded a ferry to Black Rock. The pack was slimmer than its 20-count American brother, but what struck me most was the warning label. It stopped me dead in my tracks.

Two words: Smoking kills.

Indeed, it does, I thought while the ferry was tossed like a soggy muffin in the churning Irish sea. So it does, but do they have to be so blunt about it?

I shacked up with an Australian fellow for most of the trip. He was a pilot for Quantus and more than ten years my senior. Very nice, but like that pack of cigarettes, or fags, very honest.

"It is such a shame that you smoke," he said, his hand on my knee. "You're so pretty. And with such blue eyes. It will be sad to see your beauty destroyed in 20 years, if you're not dead from cancer." He tsked and shook his head again. Such a shame he kept mumbling.

Of course, I was insulted and ashamed. But the honesty of it kept me from even trying to pretend that what he said wasn't true. Or what the warning said wasn't true. Smoking does kill.

I look to that time now, and wonder, where is that kind of honesty? What a relief it would be to not turn heads in parking lots when I tell my son that if he doesn't pay attention to the cars, he's going to get hit, and possibly die. It's a plain fact, but I hear other parents with the same concerns, presenting the information gently as an 80-year-old woman in an S.U.V. nearly backs into a first-grader while

his mother gently tugs on his arm.

"Be careful, honey," she says mildly, "You don't want to get hurt by the cars."

Hurt?! Don't you mean 'hit and dead'?! 'Cause that's a real possibility here. The same goes for cruel behavior. Many a time, my voice has gone from zero to holler in three seconds or less because either child has done something so remarkable stupid, and dangerous, that I cannot shield my amazement and fear.

"Don't ever run off like that again!" I remember screaming at my daughter in a dead panic. She had hidden UNDER the food table after church and I spent the whole of ten minutes looking frantically for her while she crouched and giggled and chewed her way through several cookies. Some other concerned parents heard my panic and were calling her name as well. When we finally found her, they relaxed and patted her shoulder.

"You gave your mommy a scare," one nice mother said, smiling.

"Gave me a scare," I screamed. "I thought somebody took you. I thought you were dead! Have you lost your whole mind, girl?! Do you know what people do when they take children. They kill them. They hurt them first and then they kill them."

By that point, the entire congregation was staring at me, horrified. I grabbed my daughter's hand, crumbling the cookie that was in it, and went straight to the car, still yelling about the horrors of kidnappers.

Was it overkill? Not to me. Because it was true. Very, solidly, terrifyingly true. And she never did it again.

Just as it was true when a student of mine didn't do an ounce of homework for an entire semester and despite several reports home, and calls, his parents wanted to know why he failed.

"He's a great kid," I said. "But lazy as the day is long."

That went over like a ton of bricks. But it was true.

Or when a colleague of mine was bemoaning her weight while cramming her third cookie into her mouth. I said the cookies weren't helping, and she didn't speak to me for three days.

Are we so afraid to tell the truth? Is it so offensive these days that instead of getting to the heart of the matter, we tip-toe and dance pointlessly around the very thing that holds the promise of progress, and healing, and maybe, dare I say it, a better life?

My father told me years ago that I was too critical of people, especially people who had done me wrong. He was right.

"Let it go," he'd said. "Let it go. You're getting backed up in the details. You're very detailed in your criticisms. It's too time-consuming."

It has never been easy to tell the truth. And even harder to hear the truth. But we have so much to gain and so much to lose. And if we're not telling the truth to other people, then I assume we aren't telling the truth to ourselves. Even harder to deal with, yes, but imagine if we did.

Smoking does kill you. You can die in the grocery store parking lot. Butter makes you fat. War is never the answer. Love is trumped up. You're too attached to your dog. Having a baby doesn't make you a good mother. Getting laid improves your mood. Drinking in excess and screwing the people who love you most means you're an alcoholic. Not paying child support makes you a loser. Writers never make money. Bottled water is an evil enterprise. Slim Fast is a scam. Even nice people are racists...

The list goes on and on. But just think, what a sharp breath of air, if just once, the truth was told. Sorry Emily D., but we've been telling it slant for too long.

The past...is history

The cold weather makes everyone raw. On edge. A little bit meaner than usual. Or, the optimist in me sees the potential for sharpening one's mental skills when the slag of heat can't trudge through a mind that is burned by the sun and foggy with squinting. Winter truly brings out the sharp corners, at least in this house it does. Lucian reads more and asks more scientific questions. Anna understands the workings of middle school drama and usually (not always) tries to avoid getting caught up in the hormone cyclone that is sixth grade.

I just turn into a bossy bitch. With a bend towards philosophy and nihilism. It's fun for me, scary for my "house mates."

On the way to school this morning, Anna informed me that her grade would be watching a movie in the auditorium tomorrow, and that she would bring a permission slip home today. Her watching the film is contigent upon my signature, naturally. I asked her straight up if it was going to be another Civil Rights film. They watched "Ghosts of Mississippi" last year, so I just needed a head's up as to what kind of turmoil would be visiting our house this year in the form of preteen racial confusion and sadness at the abominable history of the treatment of African-Americans in this country. It may just be a movie to you, but to us, in this house, these films rip open new wounds that take lots of explanation and soothing and "fake-it-'til-you-make-it" optimism provided by yours truly.

I could already feel the tension rising in the truck as we pulled into the parking lot.
"So, um, what's the name of the film," I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
"I'm not sure, Ma. It'll say it on the permission slip."
"Is it about slavery and/or segregation again this year."
"Most likely."
"Fabulous."

I wanted that to be the end of the conversation. Keep it light, you know. But I parked the truck and sat there for a moment.

"Mom, we're going to be late," Lucian piped up from the back, his voice muffled by his "face hat" as we call it.

"Ya know what chaps my ass," I started then, and Anna sat back, readying herself for the impromptu litany. "I totally understand that you need to learn history, especially that history," I said. "But I think the curriculum misses the boat a little. That was 50 freakin' years ago. What about TODAY?! The only images you and your classmates have of black folks in America is freakin' slave stories, church bombings, and MLK getting his damn head blown off by some crazy-ass white assassin. Where are the positive representations?! Where are the modern day heroes in all communities who you should be learning about, too? What the hell? Why do you think I throw those damn book orders away the moment you bring them home? All the characters are one color. And if there are black characters, it's because the book is about friggin' slavery."

"Or baseball, don't forget baseball," Lucian said. Apparently, he was listening intently.

"Yeah, and baseball," I said, softening ever so slightly.

"I did notice that about the book orders," Anna nodded. It killed her to agree with me.
"But can I still watch the movie tomorrow?"

"It depends on what it is," I said, thinking 'My god what if they try and show them A Time to Kill or some other equally horrifying film with a simplified, outdated message of hate.

"I will find out today," was Anna's response. We all shivered in silence in the parking lot. Anna cocked her head to one side in a moment of small revelation.

"There's not a lot of positive, modern lessons about women either," she said.

"That is true...maybe it's time you demand an education that goes beyond the Civil War," I said.

"I think that part's gonna be up to you, as usual." She gave me a hug and they jetted off. Brother and sister, who share blood, a home, a family, the same slippers sometimes, but never in the history books will their paths ever cross peacefully. It is a confusing lesson, if it's even a lesson at all.